


To Kneel Before The Night

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lucien Needs More Love, M/M, Service Submission, Smut, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: Lucien was born to serve. Pledging allegiance to a woman more Goddess than Fae is only logical. Thus he becomes a Knight, to a Lady and a Lord, and perhaps finds peace at last.





	To Kneel Before The Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valamerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valamerys/gifts).



> Thanks goes to Valamerys, who screamed at me about this and how it needs to happen. For just generally being an awesome human and for writing awesome fic. Go read her stuff. Oh, and pressure her to write Feyrhysien. I need it.

At first Lucien swears it is just his mind playing tricks. 

Feyre’s endless touches, brief glances, passing smiles, they all should mean nothing other than a rekindling of friendship, and yet his thoughts linger on them long into the night. He hasn’t been sleeping well - not since that night on Calanmai - and normally he would read, and yet now he sits motionless in bed, staring at the pages without comprehending the words printed upon them. All he can focus on is Feyre, Cursebreaker. 

It spreads into his waking hours. He does not catch himself as he stares blankly into the middle distance often enough; Instead, Tamlin does it for him. Clapping him on the shoulder, he knocks him from his daydream. “We’ll have Elain here too soon enough,” he says with a laugh, joining him in watching Feyre. “They look alike, don’t they? She must make you miss her.” 

“Sorely,” Lucien replies with a hollow smile. 

Lying has been his favourite hobby for the past century or so, but this is far from enjoyable. He wishes he would dwell on Elain, think of someone far away and unreachable, not oh so close and tantalisingly forbidden. No. Not tantalising. He doesn’t- he  _ can’t _ want that from Feyre. From the beginning, Tamlin has warned him not to flirt with her, not to see her in that light. And from the beginning, he has tried so hard to fight with her, not for her, to be her friend, not her lover. So why must she look at him so?

“Lucien,” she says to him one night, from outside his door. Against his better judgement he opens it for her, and she enters, swathed in a nightgown that is more air than fabric. “May I ask a favour of you?”

He does not answer at first, watching her survey the room, the touches of gold and leaves and fire motifs that he keeps around to remind him of what he has left behind, what he must never become. His father used to sleep with married women too. He will  _ not _ be like that. “Of course,” Lucien says carefully. “You are my High Lord’s lady after all.”

Not quite snorting, Feyre gives him a soft smirk, a hint at how they both know that’s not quite true - even if Lucien does not yet understand the depth of the chasm between them. “Tomorrow,” Feyre begins, turning to him, “on the Summer Solstice, something’s going to happen. And I’m going to need you to stand with me. Well. Not stand actually. I’d like you to pledge your allegiance to me on that day.” 

As Lucien goes to protest, she waves all argument away with a flick of her hand, and he falls silent. When did he lose the ability to deny her? “Nothing against Tamlin. Just against  _ her _ . Or was Calanmai more romantic than I’ve been led to believe?” He swallows. Shakes his head. This is bad: she knows how to manipulate him. Just what else has Rhysand taught her?

“The magic of the Solstice will bless me, Lucien. I can feel it building already, beneath my skin.” She brushes her forearms gently, smiling with fondness to herself. “These new powers… they’re starting to make sense. But I need them to serve a purpose politically. I need them to forge me a new image.” She looks up at him. “But the people here won’t accept a woman alone. I need a knight in shining armor, to complete the picture. So when the time comes, will you kneel before me, and validate me in their eyes?” 

Who is this women? Lucien wonders, staring at her. Where has the stubborn girl gone, who could not see beyond the consumption of her own emotions? Who is this puppeteer, playing politico and acting out plays to sway the public in her favor? How has she become everything he could ever admire in a person? She was an untamed burst of force and fire when they first met. Now, Rhysand and her own trepidation have forged her into some kind of goddess. 

He does not answer verbally, too shaken to the core to fathom words in that moment. Instead, he kneels. 

She steps close, standing before him. The waistline of her undergarments, visible beneath the sheer nightgown, is level with his mouth. She extends her hand towards him, letting him take it, kiss the knuckles in submission. He still doesn’t trust her, hasn’t unravelled the web beneath her skin, but it is obvious in that moment who is running the show now. And he has so always delighted in playing games. “From this night onwards,” he says quietly, her fingers still caught in his, “I’m yours.”

 

*  

 

The night beneath the stars, he gets his answers.

He’s half asleep and dreaming of a woman who glows in the sun, when a warm body curls up beside his. For a moment he shivers in memory of Ianthe, her hot, sweet-smelling flesh flush against his, before he recognises the scent of salt and earth and pine. “Feyre, wh-” he begins to mumble, but he is cut off but plush lips pressed to his. 

They do not speak. He does not question it; he has been asking questions since her return, and finally, finally he is getting an answer. He does not even care about the reasoning or deductions required to get there. All he knows is that she is soft and warm and oh so welcome as her body rolls on top of his, pushing aside blankets and sleeping things and breathing and low and quiet as possible. 

The night air is freezing as she strips them both of clothing, but the heat of flesh on flesh overwhelms all bitter complaints of the cold. Straddling his waist, she slips him half hard within her, and rides him till he’s swollen full with blood and want. Need threatens to melt out of his throat, yet she kisses all traces away before it can escape and wake their sleeping company. She strokes his hair and rides him tenderly, rocking back and forth upon the bare pale skin of his thighs and dear god she is as beautiful in the moonlight as in the sun. A woman of both worlds, all worlds, unlimited by time or environment. He is not quite sure she is confined to the physical.  

When they come, groaning into one another’s shoulders to suppress the sound, he feels moisture on his cheeks. She kisses it away, as he once watched Rhys do for her from the shadows. “My Knight,” she whispers, drying his cheeks and resting their foreheads together. Jurian turns, but does not stir. “Soon, it shall be over.” 

 

*

 

And soon it is. Soon Lucien finds himself winnowed away to Velaris, following his new queen like a lamb led to slaughter. And yet no guillotine awaits him at the end. Far worse, he finds a smirking, half-furious half-ecstatic Rhysand, who regards him with wolfish eyes. Unbound by her glamours now, with wings and inked marking of black and beauty, Feyre matches him in every way. They both turn to look back at him. A fox cornered by the hunt. 

Yet she has trained him how to act now. So once again he kneels, bowing his head and praying for mercy. Elain is somewhere behind him, but what does she matter? What are hormones, compared to the majesty of the Night? 

“Lucien,” Rhys says, and he is close, for he can see his boots and once again he is waist level with someone who owns him quite completely. “Finally, we are reunited. I still haven’t thanked you for what you did for me and Feyre under the mountain.” 

And just like that, past tresspasses are forgotten. Instead of a blade to his throat, Lucien feels deft fingers brushing through his hair. He looks up at the High Lord of Night, and realises he has been worrying about the wrong things. Hybern does not stand a chance against this creature of endless shadows, nor the woman of all worlds. The only thing he should have worried about is how he could best serve them. For in all his life, Lucien has only found peace in giving himself to those he deems worthy, for being their right hand. 

For the first time in what feels like decades, he smiles. “It’s good to be home.” 

 

*

 

The three of them are alone in the House of Wind, the others all out scouting for the War with Hybern. Lucien is doing his best to be useful, combing through the research of the Day Court for answers on how to break the curses Hybern has been forging with the Cauldron. How to eliminate the possibility of what happened at his palace from ever occurring again.   

It is hard to focus on academics, however, when above you come the sounds of incredibly vigorous fucking. He can here furniture slamming over and over against walls, several uses of the word ‘fuck’, and moaning so sinfully dirty that he can feel his cock hardening beneath the fabric of his breeches. He may adore his Lord and Lady, and have pledged his life to them, but they are not always the most… considerate of people. 

More worrying is when the ruckus is replaced by total silence. He glances skywards at the ceiling, wondering if they have fucked themselves to death. With all those powers and being ‘the most powerful High Lord ever’ bullshit, it was probably the only thing left that ever  _ could  _ kill them. 

“Scholar,” a low purr calls from the doorway behind him. “We have a question.” 

He glances back over his shoulder to see Rhysand and Feyre reclining in the doorway, draped across it far, far too provocatively. Both are naked. Completely, totally, buckass naked. Shining with sweat and flushed from their ‘activity’, regarding him like wolves stalking a deer. 

“Care to join us?” 

Lucien can not remember how to function. How to speak. All he can do was gape and stare at them, their bodies, these two deities. The woman who had fucked him silent in the dark. The man who had been the first to seduce him when he was fresh out from being a child. Two creatures who could destroy the world together, let alone him. 

He closes the book. “Always.” 

 

*

 

“You’re sure you want me here?” Lucien asks with a shiver as Feyre and Rhysand drape themselves around him, undressing him in amongst sweet kisses that leave him all aquiver. It seems wrong that he should come between these two, who have fought through so much to be together. Long ago, he accepted his role was to sit and watch from afar, admiring, but never again touching. 

“You’re our fair Knight, remember?” Feyre murmurs, her bare chest pressed against his back, her arms slipped around his waist. “We _ chose _ you.”

“Rhys never-”

“Oh no,” Rhys counters, his clever lips working their way down his side, across his hips, trailing dark, blooming hickies as he kisses around his thighs. “Bringing you into the fold was  _ my _ suggestion.”

“We belong to each other,” Feyre says softly, stroking a hand through Rhy’s shock of black hair. “But you, Lucien, you belong to us.”  

“And we know exactly where we want you,” Rhys follows, kneeling down before him in a mirror image of when they first were reunited. Of how Feyre staked her claim.

“And we want you here,” she says.

“Right between us.” 

Lucine does not know how this is happening, but he finds himself with his cock being lovingly adored by Rhys’s talented mouth, whilst Feyre sucks and bites at the sensitive skin of his paling neck. She alone could undo him, but both together they deconstruct him into a trembling mess, and soon they have him upon the bed, whimpering and groaning and orgasming more times than he can remember. 

He discovers many things that night, more than he could ever have learned in his books or research. He learns that Rhys, cocky and confident as he is, mewls into pillows like a virgin when anyone goes near his ass. He maps out every soft spot on Feyre’s body that elicits a pleasing groan from her lips. For himself, he redefines his own boundaries, learning that he can surrender himself quite completely to these people, and they know exactly what to give him in return. 

“My Lord, my Lady,” Lucien says quietly, when at last they have to stop as the sun is coming up and Azriel and Mor are expected shortly. He lies between them, caught up in both of their arms, glowing with contentedness as they stroke his hair and belly. “I will serve you for forever.” 

 

Smiling, the pair of them look at one another, then back at him. In unison they say,

“As, dear Knight, shall we.”


End file.
